


Wake Me Up and Hold Me Tight When Bad Dream Ends

by greenteams



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Cuddling & Snuggling, Established Relationship, Fix-It, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Jealous Sherlock, Johnlock Roulette, Kissing, Lots of kissing, M/M, Post-Series 4(not really), Protective John, Series 3 almost never happens, Series 4 never happens, Sweet, TFP absolutely never exists, Tenderness, they live happily ever after
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-14
Updated: 2017-05-14
Packaged: 2018-10-31 17:45:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,843
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10904286
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/greenteams/pseuds/greenteams
Summary: Sherlock’s worst nightmare finds its best consolation from John.





	Wake Me Up and Hold Me Tight When Bad Dream Ends

**Author's Note:**

> Again, it’s me, a Johnlocker from China says Hi. Please tell me where my English expressions can be improved and which part(s) you like. Enjoy reading!

**Wake Me Up and Hold Me Tight When Bad Dream Ends**

 

The night is dark and the moonlight shines like flowing silver.

John comes home after a night-shift at the clinic when it’s past midnight. He climbs up the stairs on his tiptoes, skipping with excellent skill one step that creaks. Mrs. Hudson should be asleep now, he doesn’t want to wake her up. Sherlock, if possible, may also be asleep, better not to awake him, either.

The thinking of about to see Sherlock upstairs in the next minute, whether awake or asleep, makes John both light-hearted and light-footed, and the corner of his mouth rises upwards.

The door to the living room is unlatched when John arrives at the landing and pushes it open. The lamp on the floor casts a warm orange halo to the room, lighting up some dark-coloured fuzzy thing spreading on the sofa arm.

“Sherlock?” He calls quietly.

The bunch of curls doesn’t move.

John sighed inwardly, feeling both relieved and anxious. The bright part is that Sherlock finally got some sleep as told; what worries him, on the other side, he may get cold or backache from sleeping on the sofa instead of in bed. He approaches the sofa, and is not surprised to see Sherlock sprawling on his back, fast asleep. That old T-shirt he uses as pajama top is rolling all its way up, showing a large amount of porcelain white skin. His extremely expensive royal blue dressing gown is now a wrinkled mess between himself and the sofa cushions. Sherlock’s arms are folding on his chest, covering something dingy and grey, which John takes his time to recognize to be his own old sweater. Where did he get that from?

Shaking his head, John goes nearer and crouches by the coffee table, and tugs down Sherlock’s pajama top. His hands may still getting some evening-outside-coldness. So he warms them up, and then reaches over again to tuck the lower hem of the T-shirt into the waistband of the detective’s pajama trousers, so that he won’t roll it up again in his squirming sleep positions.

Sherlock mumbles at the disturbance, but shows no sign of waking up. His lips are slightly open, his eyebrows are relaxing, his long eyelashes are mildly shuddering, projecting bouncy shadows on his high cheekbones. That very much attenuates his usual sharp angles and arrogant touch. He looks so young and so pure now. John watches him, feeling incredibly protective: the sleeping Sherlock Holmes almost looks like a kid who gets to eat his favourite candy in his dream—is it John’s illusion or the trick of the lamp halo, or is it real that a shade of elusive smile just floats on Sherlock’s face?

John finds himself gazing at Sherlock’s tranquil sleep, until the latter wriggles and breathes out, and one blurred drool slips out.

“... I prefer my doctor clean-shaven.”

It takes John all his efforts to have successfully suffocated a snigger in the bottom of his throat. What _is_ he thinking while sleeping? Although he still touches his own jaw subconsciously: late night is always when the stubbles grow the fastest.

“OK, OK, going for a wash right away, alright? But not before putting you back in bed, come on,” John mutters, starting to remove his out-of-time sweater. Sherlock hums in disagreeing, not wanting to let go. Somehow the doctor manages to put the sweater away, at the same time, putting Sherlock’s arms behind his neck. He reaches one arm into the sofa to scoop Sherlock’s shoulders, and another behind his back of knees. And it only takes John a lift in both arms to have the detective hanging onto him like a curling boiled lobster. He stands up and carries Sherlock across the experiment-staff-filled kitchen and the narrow corridor, and enters the bedroom. He settles him on the bed (far from the bedroom door, which has been Sherlock’s side since, well, since John takes the side by the door), tugs the duvet to cover along his chest.

“I know ash!” Sherlock babbles, eyes still closed, arms encircling John’s head and flailing everywhere. It looks like he never stops feeling good about that old paper he wrote once, even in his dream.

“Yeah, sure, 243 types, I remember that,” John coaxes him, “vividly. Now--” He wants to straighten up, but those two slim arms circle around him like water snakes.

“I know, I know,” he coos, like a hen soothes her frightened little chickens, loosening Sherlock’s fingers one by one, and kisses softly on his knuckles, “but I’ve got the smell of clinical sanitizer all over me, you won’t like it. Be back in a minute, OK?” He manages to get rid one last finger, tucks both Sherlock’s hands into the duvet, and picks up his own pajamas from the dresser stool.

When he gets to the door to the loo, he hears a low sigh from Sherlock. Several syllables come dismally from the pillow.

“Into battle.”

John turns back to look at him. Sherlock has turned in bed, his black curls are all over the pillow. It seems that he has sunk into deep sleep again.

“No, Sweetie, not into battle, just going to have a shower. Wait for me to come back.” He grins and enters the loo.

Actually, if given right timing, he’d very much be inclined to have a nice and nerve-appeasing bath. John takes off his clothes, opens the shower nozzle and walks under the warm string of water. Only now…he definitely doesn’t want to leave Sherlock alone in bed for too long.

They have a quite nice bathtub, not very big, a bit vintage style; the one with four claw-shaped feet. They keep under the lavabo many kinds of bath salts, of various colours and different functions. John likes shea butter scent, and Sherlock always prefer that kind of product which produces lots of bubbles.

There are tons of facts proving that the abundance of bubbles is an _interesting_ choice. John damps himself with soap, while some pleasant memories about bubbles come into his mind for him to savor. Every piece of them took exact place in the above-mentioned bathtub, involving John’s favourite vilon songs, Sherlock’s favourite Chinese food take-out, their shared favourite little duck sponge loofah, and Mrs. Hudson’s absolute not-favourite floods on the floor. And, of course, lots, lots of long and lasting lazy kisses.

Maybe it is time to renew this wonderful tradition again, this weekend would be perfect. Thoughts hovering in head, John pulls close a towel to dry his hair and body, and brushes teeth and finishes shaving against the vapoury mirror.

He puts on his pajamas before returning to the bedroom. He almost jumps to find the bed literally empty. Is this one of Sherlock’s whimsy? Has he gone out of the bedroom in the mid of night? Soon he realizes that there are sobs coming from the other side of the bed. Being too alarmed and anxious to go around the stern of the bed, he hurries his way directly across the bed. Sherlock, cocooned in the duvet, lies on his stomach on the floor. Obviously he has fallen from the bed. Luckily the duvet and the rug on the floor must have acted as buffer, so he’s probably not injured. However, to John’s horror, he sees Sherlock’s entire form hunch into a struggling shrimp, his hands tightly gripping the corner of the duvet, his legs kicking frenziedly.

John kneels down to the floor, turns Sherlock over and supports the back of his head. Sherlock’s eyes are shut, his eyebrows frowning, his face in agony. John knows that he’s having a nightmare. As soon as he releases him out of the wrap of the duvet, Sherlock automatically grabs John’s clothes and cries out: “Don’t, John John John, don’t--”

“Shh, it’s OK,” John holds him from above his waist and wipes his sweaty forehead, “It’s OK, Sugarnut(*1), I’m here, I’m here.”

Suddenly Sherlock flashes his eyes open, his expression wild, panic-stricken and panting hard. His curls are wet and saggy, his face is bathed in tears. He stays still for a while, totally at a loss, and stammers, “Jo...John?”

“Yeah, It’s me. You had dream, Sherl?”

Sherlock lets out a whimpering noise he’d never made before, darts himself towards John and burying his face in his belly.

“Please, don’t leave me, John. Beat me or scold me or kick me, do whatever you want, but one thing, just—please don’t ever leave me—”

His crying words break John’s heart. Where his hands touch and feel is that Sherlock’s T-shirt is all wet both front and back, and there is no way to tell whether they are sweats or tears or both.

“Hey, hey, Babe, look at me,” John forces him to look up, “I am here. We are good. You’ve had a bad dream, but it’s alright, it’s over now.”

“But, but—” Sherlock’s eyes searches around the dim bedroom but have nowhere to focus, “I’ve killed your wife, you...you said you didn’t want to see me anymore—”

“Sherlock, are you alright?” John asks, worried. He checks his pulse and eyelids, and tests his forehead with his own. Heart rate is a bit rapid and temperature is a bit high, but nothing serious. He placates him with his palm massaging his nape and patting on his back. Sherlock’s rumbling heartbeat hits his chest, and his hot and short breath is puffing against his ear.

That fake death of Sherlock’s used to bring John endless sadness, cause him countless nights of insomnia or nightmares. Good thing is that ever since he came back, and that they got together as anyone would expect and every logic would lead to, all these symptoms of John’s are naturally gone. As for Sherlock himself, however, two years and five months of life on the run traumatized him both physically and mentally. He sleeps not well from time to time. He’d dreamed about the smell of blood and rusty chains in that cold dungeon; he’d dreamed about that pitch-dark wood from where he tried and tried to run out, but bushes had blocked his way and thistles and thorns had bled his hands and feet; he’d dreamed about the noise of an approaching helicopter, those little red aiming points from dozens of guns surrounding him like eyes of hungry beasts, those savage serbian sentences containing a wide range of profanity. John has suggested that he goes for a therapist; but Sherlock’s always acting confident and aloof during the days, plus he’s a private person, so he does not want to talk about these experiences to anybody else other than John. John hasn’t stuck to his suggestion. He does what he can: take care of him, make sure he eats proper meals, watch his back during cases, spoil him in leisure time, be in his company when sleeplessness gets him. In these recent months Sherlock’s mental status has been improved a great deal. Nightmares as ridiculous as “John would leave me” just happens for the very first time.

John lets Sherlock rest on his shoulder in silence for a moment for him to calm down from hyperventilation and spasmodic sobs. “Let us get you a glass of tepid water, does that sound good, Honey?” He turns his face a little to peck his temple.

Sherlock immediately ties his arms around his torso, his voice hoarse: “Don’t go.”

“Just to the loo, then, fetching a hot towel to wipe your face.” John moves his thumb to wipe one drop of the many tears from Sherlock’s face.

Sherlock lets out one more little sob, tightens his arms and pouts: “Don’t you go anywhere.”

“Not going anywhere,” John repeats docilely, “Your pajama top’s got wet, let’s take it off and go back in bed, OK?”

Sherlock concedes. He disentwines his arms and allows John to drag down the sleeves of the wrinkled dressing gown, and to pull the sticky T-shirt off from his head. John holds him by shoulders and back of knees as he did before, gets to his feet and puts him on the bed. He fluffs up the pillow for him, picks up the duvet from the floor and spreads it onto him, and then gets himself under it after taking off his own pajama top. Sherlock slides into his firm hug like a bouncy and minty piece of pudding, the top of his head touching John’s chin.

John presses his chest to Sherlock’s to warm him up, one arm holding his shoulder and the other never stops stroking softly his back. Once there was the most smooth and gorgeous human skin John had ever had the good fortune of seeing—if John being honest enough, he’d thought so since in Buckingham Palace—But now, many atrocious scars have entrenched there. At this very moment John can’t see them, but he can feel them. From the very first time John saw them, those shocking colours and shapes had left permanent marks on his retina, and carved John’s heart by the exact same track and depth.

John remembers that before the fall, Sherlock is all so stroppy and sassy and wilful and bossy. He wears those expensive fine tailored suits, possesses state of the art smart phones, never rides a bus or takes tube as long as he can find a taxi. Inside the flat he orders John to obey his various instructions, bickers with his big brother when Mycroft visits; Outside the house he constantly sneers at Lestrade’s observational skills and contempts every other men or women in NSY. Despite all that, he can also make Mrs. Hudson laugh loud if he feels like doing so, and puts on that puppy eye face so that John would do anything he wants for him. Why on earth would anyone think him as a sociopath? He is clearly a so very spoiled child who gets to get everything he wants since he’s a little boy. Yet this exact little spoiled boy, has chosen to jump off that building and dived into that dangerous exile without one second of hesitation, for John. His short and plain flatmate. He’d been away from this nice little flat, away from the landlady’s delicious chocolate cookies, away from John’s tea and compliments, hid from place to place under fake names and fake identities, fought against the most ruthless and evil criminal forces on this world. His once flawless and spoiled back suffers from all the floggings, each wound openning to bones and dripping fresh blood, screaming his desperate love. Every inch of his never fading beautiful scars is evidence of his love. For John.

John holds the man in his arms tight, feeling his heaving breath and pumping heartbeat, perceiving his vibrant vitality, appreciating one miracle after another in his life. Suddenly this life seems too short to love Sherlock enough.

“Sherlock?” He tries to swallow the lump in his throat and breaks the silence.

“Hmm?” Sherlock stirs, his drying hair brushes John’s neck and his lashes bat against his chest, causing him a little itchy.

“I love you,” John kisses the top of his head, “You know I will always love you, right? It’s always you, and only you. There is no one or anything ever gonna change that.”

Sherlock nibbles John’s chest with his front teeth, snuggles up to him like a cat, and murmurs: “I know that, John.”

John smiles and lift Sherlock up a bit to level their eyes: “Good. Wanna talk?”

Sherlock blinks, sorrow and doubt fleet in his eyes. “Silly, that dream. Would you laugh at me, John?”

John leans in to kiss his eyes. He kisses away the tear stains at the corner of them and kisses away the concerns in them. “Of course not.”

Sherlock inhales deeply and begins: “I dreamed that when I came back, you’ve been engaged, John, to Mary Morstan—”

“What?!” John can’t help but protest, his tone full of disgust, “You mean the new intern nurse at my clinic, the one with a weird accent?”

“Precisely,” Sherlock does not like his interrupt and purses his mouth, “She looks smart and sophisticated in that dream, the type you would like—let me finish,” he anticipates John’s prepared refute and hastily adds, “and she finds me tolerable, does not see me as a rude arsehole or something like that. And she encourages us to go out and back on cases again.”

“Why on earth do we need anyone’s encouragement on that, that’s what we—” John is completely baffled by the bizarre plot.

“—You live together in a house in the suburbs, a perfect and annoying bourgeois house. And you are getting married,” Sherlock continues stubbornly, fingers gently fondles back and forth on John’s wrist, “You ask me to be your bestman. You say I am your best friend.”

“Oh Sherlock... Of course you are. You are my best friend, and the best and wisest man I’ve ever known.” John tells him affirmatively, finding his fingers and laces their ten fingers together, “I’m sorry I treated you like that in your dream. How did you respond?”

“I said yes. How can I say no to you?” Sherlock lifts their holding hands to his lips and kisses their interwoven fingers, “On your stag night we went to bars. Both of us got very drunk, which was odd, because I had accurately calculated the function of the correlation between body weight and alcohol intake, and strictly controlled the urination intervals—assume that I’m inevitably thicker or erroneous in dreams—Anyway, we went home and lay on the stairs to talk about life goals or something, and we played childish games, and there were clients, we went on investigation in some apartment and I vomited on the carpet. The two of us ended up in the jail and Lestrade had to bail us. I can’t remember the details but—Ahhh—it was fun.”

“Yeah, the jail is _fun_ ,” John nibbles at the junction where his ear meets his cheek, feeling satisfied to lure some moans out of him.

“Your waltz skills are terrible, John,” Sherlock takes one of John’s fingers by mouth and sucks it vindictively, which makes John inhale sharply, “I had to close up the curtains and teach you in the sitting room.”

“I bet your dancing is marvelous,” John withdraws his finger and makes up for it by pressing a kiss to his lips, “You can actually teach me tomorrow, and we don’t have to close the curtains at all.”

Sherlock hums at his kiss. John feels the urge to lean forward again and kisses him more. He licks and bites fondly at the corner of his mouth, and slides the tip of his tongue into his hot and wet mouth. Sherlock gasps hard, the air between them starts to heat up, and the slippery sound of their snogs rises into the hot atmosphere.

As John is getting fascinated and intoxicated, Sherlock pulls back a little, places one palm on John’s chest and pushes him, making blaming noises.

“Sorry,” John breathes heavily, trying to catch back his sanity, “I got distracted. Please go on, tell me what happens next. Although that might not be something pleasant.”

Sherlock’s still rosy face tightens a bit: “I wrote a song for your wedding. Caught a murderer on the reception dinner. Deduced Mary’s pregnancy before the dancing starts.”

“My good lord,” John lowers his head, deflated, “Why would you do that to yourself, Sherlock?”

“If one can control his subconscious, there would be a lot less trouble,” Sherlock puts one hand on John’s neckline, and muses, “though there’ll be new troubles.”

“In your subconscious Mary is a threat?” John asks, genuinely confused, “I’d say she’s some not worth mentioning nobody.”

“She’s interested in you. Very. Whenever you tweet, she responds in five minuets, regardless of time or current location, suggesting she has you on text alert. Every time you write a blog about a case and praise me, she leaves sarcastic or sour comments. On her facebook album of your clinic’s last month’s party, you take the centre frame of nearly every photo and look handsome and totally is the star of the room, whereas I am always partly or entirely excluded. Also she has hinted at least three times at different occasions dinner after work for only you two. It’s so obvious, one look at her hair and shoes would tell. I know you neglected those hints, not even realizing what she’s up to.”

“ _Of course_ I ignored her, Jesus, Sherlock, I have noticed none of these things you said, I have barely looked at her for more than three seconds whatsoever.” John shakes his head in disbelief, pulls Sherlock into his arms, “I already have _you_ , thank God. She’s nothing compared to you. Nothing at all.”

“Yet she shot me, because she didn’t want to lose you.” Sherlock whispers into John’s ear.

John’s hand on Sherlock’s back goes stiff.

“In right here,” Sherlock takes his hand, moves slowly toward a place lower than his heart and between two ribs, “That really hurts. Hurts like hell, John. I guess that’s when I fell down from the bed.”

John’s thumb circles around on that small piece of skin. He bends and replaces his thumb with lips. He kisses that point reverently, with so much care and fondness. “There is no bullet hole in here, look, not a wound at all,” he covers Sherlock’s heart with one palm, “nothing but a most beautiful heart. I will never let anyone hurt you again, Sherlock, never let anyone steal your heart from me, either.”

Drops and drops of tears come down from Sherlock’s half-shut eyes. “It’s yours,” his long fingers climb up to cover John’s hand, pressing together close to his heart, “if you want it.”

John tugs Sherlock’s neck to pull him down and kisses him deeply, “I love you,” one more kiss, “I love you,” another, “I love you,” more kisses, “If I haven’t said it enough before, I will say it to you everyday in the rest of my life. Our lives.”

“I love you too.” Sherlock echos in a low voice. The corners of his mouth curl upward into a joyful and trusting smile under John’s lips, tears still in eyes.

John finds himself both crying and smiling, Sherlock’s and his own tears all over face.

“Do I want to hear the end of that awful story?”

“I’m not sure, John.”

“Come on, finish it, it’ll do you good to spill it out.”

Sherlock nods, his eyes are like stars shinning into darkness.

“She shot me, but I survived. Only to find that you forgave her and went back to her, because your baby is going to be born. It’s a girl,” Sherlock pauses and swallows, “I ask if you can name her after me, you say Sherlock is not a girl’s name. Then you name her Rosamund, that is, Mary’s middle name...Rosie for short. Rosie she—she is a precious little baby girl.”

John does not comment on this, gently stroking Sherlock’s arm and shoulder.

“You and Mary are so happy about having Rosie around and are so busy taking care of her, that you rarely drop by at Baker Street to visit me. Then one day I’ve cornered some suspect at the London Aquarium, I called you to come. Mary showed up, too, earlier than you did. When she arrived, I’ve just irritated the suspect and she pulled out a gun. The bullet was aimed at me, but Mary—she jumped in front of me out of blue. She said that now she and I were even.”

John’s jaw is clenched tighter than ever and his teeth are audibly gritting.

“Apparently it’s me who’s responsible for her death. You—you said that you’d rather talk to anyone but me. You just...left.”

“Stop,” John grabs Sherlock’s shoulders hard, “Stop it, Sherlock, any version of me would never have said anything like that to you in any univer—”

“Your words put me into a bottomless of abysm,” Sherlock continues in spite of John’s protest, “I took cases one after another restlessly. I used drugs, punched walls, I’ve got double kidney failure and hallucinations. But I want to see you, John, I want you back. So I went to Culverton Smith.”

“Smith?” John is amazed and totally diverged, “The one in the bus stop posters? That actor? You do know that he is the voice of Dobby the House-elf?”

“That one I am not particularly aware of. I suppose I just borrowed some familiar name into the dream. Then he’s a despicable murderer under the pretence of public figure. I—I thought I’ve got solid proofs on him, and Mrs. Hudson had talked you into going to confront him with me. However he’s so cunning that not only did he distance himself from my accusations but also made you believe that it was me who got high and slandered some innocent man as upright as him. You got so angry with me, John, so very very angry...”

Sherlock winces, his voice trailing off, and does not finish that phrase.

“And that’s when I woke you up.” John understands tacitly and finishes for him.

Sherlock nods, and shifts inch by inch toward John’s chest, his voice broken and vulnerable: “John, I’ve promised you not to ever use again and I will keep that promise. But maybe I won’t be able to be one hundred percent correct in every deduction, neither can I win every match against the criminal classes. Will you be disappointed at me? Will you still love me?”

John holds him tighter than ever with his arms and legs until their entire bodies are pressed together, limbs entangled. “I love every one of your deductions, mind-bendingly brilliant ones and slightly flawed ones; I love every chase I’ve had and will have side by side with you, sweepingly invincible ones and thrillingly dangerous ones; I love everything about you, the best of you and the worst of you. Sometimes I might be mad at you, yes, but it never means that I’d ever leave you or stop loving you. As long as you don’t do anything that harms yourself, you will never disappoint me.”

Sherlock’s fluffy head nods incessantly.

“Plus, don’t worry about those criminals,” John goes on, purposely squeezing his robust biceps, “You have me, who has not been trained for nothing.”

Sherlock touches John’s upper arm admiringly and smiles secretly.

“Yes, Captain.”

“Speaking of which... _Captain America 2_ is on now, Culverton Smith is the villain. Wanna go and watch it?” (*2)

“You will buy me extra large popcorns?”

“No problem.”

“The bucket sits on your laps?”

“Sure.”

“I'll eat from your palm?”

“When ever did we not do it that way?”

“Right. OK, then.” Sherlock nuzzles his face into John’s neck and John rubs his hair indulgently.

He doesn’t speak for a long moment, just enjoying John’s caress. John thinks he’s falling asleep again, when he starts all of a sudden.

“I will call Mycroft to arrange for Miss Morstan a new internship opportunity at some other hospital.”

“What?” John laughs out.

“You heard me, John, I’m not saying it again.”

“Okay, well, you call it, fine by me. Just...keep it low-key, OK?”

John’s neck skin practically feels Sherlock’s eyes roll.

“You know how my fattie brother works. Last minute he’s as high key as sitting on a parade car side by side with the queen, next minute things are low key enough to disappear a whole aeroplane of people.”

“Still, make sure not to ruin some girl’s school business.” John scratches his left ear.

“Who cares.” Sherlock shrugs.

“Sherlock—” John makes bluffing gesture and tickles his ribs.

“OK OK I was joking!” Sherlock giggles and rolls over crazily on the bed. John pins him by anchoring both his hands over his head and kisses him hard on the mouth.

Sherlock’s laugh fades and he pulls John lower to find a better position.

“I remember...” John sneakily slides one hand south, “You’ve mentioned...a baby? And you’ve given her a name?”

“Yes...” Sherlock’s deep baritone sounds breathtakingly sexy in the quiet bedroom.

“You like babies?” John nibbles his slim and limp neck.

“She’s yours.” Sherlock is panting.

“Oh god,” John is panting too, “Sherlock Holmes, could I possibly love you a bit more?”

“Try,” Sherlock lifts one eyebrow, a naughty hand coming down to John’s pajama pants.

“Challenge accepted,” John growls with full passion, his finger finds the waistband of Sherlock’s pajama pants and tugs it all the way down to the ankles, his voice husky, and his head a little dizzy, “If we are very lucky, we are going to have a baby. _Our_ baby. Mine, and yours.”

Sherlock closes his eyes, lost in the sensual moment. He crosses his nude legs behind John’s sturdy back and vaguely thinks that maybe this time John would be more than willing to name the baby after him.

 

-END-

**Author's Note:**

> *1：It is said that Martin called Ben Sugarnut on the set of filming The Lying Detective.  
> *2：Sherlock came back in November 2013, and Captain America 2 (The Winter Soldier) aired in April 2014. I think the timeline fits here.
> 
> Thank you for reading. Comments and Kudos would be lovely!


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